The Calling of the Grave by Simon Beckett Page B

bathrobe.
        'Hello,
David. Not disturbing you, am I?'
        What
struck me afterwards was how ordinary it felt. It was as though we'd only seen
each other a few weeks ago, not the eight years it had been.
        Terry
Connors hadn't changed. Older, yes; the hairline was higher than it used to be,
and the skin of his face held a tired pallor that spoke of long hours spent in
cars and offices. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there
before. But while the good looks were more weathered, the square jawline a
little heavier than I recalled, they were still intact. So was the cockiness
that was part and parcel of them. He still looked down on the world in a
literal and figurative sense: even though he was on the lower step, the muddy
eyes were on a level with mine. I saw them flick over me, no doubt taking in
changes just as mine were doing. I wondered how different I must look myself
after all this time.
        It
was only then that the shock of seeing him hit home.
        I had
no idea what to say. He glanced back down the street as if it led to the past
that lay behind us. I noticed that his left earlobe was missing, as though
neatly snipped off with a pair of scissors, and wondered how that had happened.
But then I bore scars of my own since the last time I'd seen him.
        'Sorry
for turning up unannounced, but I didn't think you should hear it on the news.'
He turned back to me, his policeman's eyes unblinking and unapologetic. 'Jerome
Monk's escaped.'
        It
was a name I hadn't heard in years. I was silent for a moment as it caught up
with me, bringing back echoes of the bleak Dartmoor landscape and the odour of
peat. Then I stepped back and held open the door.
        'You'd
better come in.'
        Terry
waited in the sitting room while I went to get dressed. I didn't rush. I stood
in the bedroom, my breathing fast and shallow. My fists were clenched into tight
balls. Calm down. Hear what he has to say. I pulled my clothes on
automatically, fumbling at the buttons. When I realized I was delaying facing
him I went back out.
        He
was standing by the bookshelf with his back to me, head canted at an angle so he
could read the spines. He spoke without turning round.
        'Nice
place you've got here. Live by yourself?'
        'Yes.'
        He
pulled a book from the shelf and read the title. 'Death's Acre. Not much
for light reading, are you?'
        'I
don't get much time.' I clamped down on my irritation. Terry always had a knack
of getting under my skin. It was part of what had made him such a good
policeman. 'Can I get you a tea or coffee?'
        'I'll
have a coffee so long as it's not decaf. Black, two sugars.' He replaced the
book and followed me to the kitchen, standing in the doorway as I filled the
percolator. 'You don't seem very concerned about Monk.'
        'Should
I be?'
        'Don't
you want to know what happened?'
        'It
can wait till I've made the coffee.' I could feel his gaze on me as I put the
percolator on the heat. 'How's Deborah?'
        'Thriving
since the divorce.'
        'I'm
sorry.'
        'Don't
be. She wasn't. And at least the kids were old enough to decide who they wanted
to live with.' The smile crinkled his eyes without warming them. 'I get to see
them every other weekend.'
        There
wasn't much I could say. 'Are you still in Exeter?'
        'Yeah,
still at HQ.'
        'Detective
Superintendent yet?'
        'No.
Still a DI.' He said it as though daring me to comment.
        'The
coffee'll be a few minutes,' I told him. 'We might as well sit down.'
        The
kitchen was big enough to double as a dining room. It was more comfortable in
the sitting room, but I didn't want Terry in there. It was strange enough
having him here as it was.
        He
took a seat opposite me. I'd forgotten what a big man he was. He'd obviously
kept himself fit, although the signs of encroaching middle age were